Leaving the wheat with the chaff. This is not your mother’s poetry.

Act Two

Disguise your face or reach a similar end
Wandering brings no certainty
But the certainty of separation
The North Star still shines over the oceans
But the damage has arrived
The sea and sky become one
And nature wears out
Even the wittiest poet
No extravagant praise
Nor the felt tips of a thousand pens
Can restore her against herself
She talks while there is sleep
And bids permission to do so
Foolish are attempts, and so I am guilty
Of exchanging worthless for invaluable
It is the futility in trying to control
The pitch of thunder

A lecherous, slippery ambition
And too often with disparaging anger
No pacification will be brought about
But by chance in absolute destruction
Such inclinations will be dismissed

So scheme schemes to destroy
In Machiavellian fashion
Abandon your kitchens and bedrooms
Call to action the militaries
Toxic watered down dreams
To drink to the bottom
Of a big-belled glutton that we are
Rooted with precise balance
The figure head, a clock
To undo in the darkness
The argument of disorder
Feeding on hesitation
To live, to not be devoured by incapacity
Is to act as if nothing is known
But what use is a life
That has not sought to control the squall
Though it remains false thunder